


Reconciliation

by timbrene



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:36:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timbrene/pseuds/timbrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver Hawke, and a collection of his sister's most questionable decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reconciliation

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive any typos or glaring continuity errors; I have no beta and very little patience for reading my own writing.

The elf, he thinks, is among the worst of the bunch.

There’s the mage, of course, granted, and he’s  _much_  worse, but all demon-infused extremists aside, the elf absolutely takes the bloody cake. Brooding, melodramatic mess of a man, he is. He doesn't approve at all of her plans to pay him a casual visit. The elf doesn't seem like a casual visit sort of man, for one thing, and he’s half afraid she’ll come back missing a finger or two. Or a heart, for that matter, if their introduction was any indication.

“Maybe he just needs a little push,” is her only answer when he voices his concern.

Carver looks up from his letters and fixes her with an exasperated look.

“Does he seem like the sort of person who would take kindly to your  _pushing_?” he asks flatly. Really, and Mother is certain she’s the eldest?

“Have you ever actually tried being nice to people?” Marian counters, swatting him on the back of the head as she passes by to retrieve her staff from the corner. “You might be surprised.”

Carver snorts.

“People, sure. But him? Has he ever actually smiled? Once?”

His sister collects her pack from beside the door and shoulders outside, turning around to give him one last grin.

“Not yet.”

But it really doesn’t matter to him; if his sister feels some inexplicable need to get grouched at for an hour or two, it certainly isn’t Carver’s problem.

He knows when she returns from her outing looking as flustered as he has ever seen her that it’s about to be.

\--

“You know, Carver,” Marian begins, and immediately he knows this will be unpleasant, “I’m glad we finally have a swordsman.”

Carver exhales heavily and looks down at the ground, gathering himself. She's only trying to goad him, he knows it. He's smart enough not to bite for every piece of bait she dangles in front of him.

“And what am I, exactly?” He immediately regrets asking. He really does. He closes his eyes.

It's unreasonably hot out for the season today, and the squalor of Gamlen's porch does nothing to better the scene. She'd dragged him along on one of her little hero missions again, and ever the fool he had let her, and now sports a swelling purple bruise on his forehead to show for it. One that his sister dismisses as insignificant, and the whiny healer refuses to touch because it's too bloody minor for his  _incredibly prestigious talent_. So here he sits, wedged up against Gamlen's marvelously practical decorative spikes, removing the less necessary portions of his armor for supper: an event that Marian has decided would somehow be enjoyable in any way with both the mage and the elf in attendance.

The two rays of sunshine are seated at opposite ends of the porch. Anders, having no actual armor for Mother to moan is ruining the house, is sulking at the bottom of the stairs. Fenris is on the far corner by the door, just behind Marian, and is staring with equal parts apprehension and curiosity at the back of her head. Ugh. Carver refocuses on the straps of his gauntlet.

“Not the sort I meant,” is her unexpectedly tame reply. He turns away from his work once more to regard her skeptically, and she shrugs in answer. But - he groans inwardly - she’s  _grinning_ , that infuriating sort of grin she always has slapped across her face when she thinks she’s being clever.

“You know,” she continues, “brave. Steadfast.  _Handsome_.”

At this, Fenris twitches just the slightest bit behind her, as though he is about to start running for the hills at any moment. Brave, his soggy left sock.

“Like the ones in the stories, you know? Except maybe with a bit more wit. It’s a tragedy that the only example I ever had growing up was-”

“Alright,” he says thinly, jerking the other gauntlet off with more force than is strictly necessary, “yes, I get it,  _ha ha ha_ , let’s have a laugh at Carver’s expense for a bloody change.”

She laughs (and snorts, the epitome of grace that she is), but she looks away and sets to her own armor, and he knows her well enough to recognize that she will leave him be (as much as she ever does, at any rate). He can feel the elf’s eyes burning into them both in turn, and stubbornly refuses to acknowledge him. If his sister wants to do this, it’s her game, and he is resolved to stay twenty miles away from it.

\--

_Or-les-ians_.

He swears, he is not going to make it through the day without decking someone.

His first real mission apart from any of the others, and he’s stuck chaperoning peacocking nobles at a sickeningly ostentatious party where the guests and staff alike treat him as though he’s something unpleasant they’ve stepped in. And these people are supposedly dangerous. He wonders if their minds are truly as sharp as the Senior Warden had warned him, or whether this is simply a common misconception born from the sharp edges of those horrible, gaudy things they call helms.

He bids as polite a goodbye as he can manage to the lord who has just finished berating his armor ( _yes, serah, it really is Warden issue and he’s very sure that the Warden Commander would not like to meet his personal seamstress and if he reeks of dog he’s bloody proud_ ), watching the oranges and greens of his - bathrobe, perhaps? - bob away through the crowd.

_Or-les-i-ans._

It’s times like this he almost misses -

“Carver!”

No - no, he  _really did not mean that,_  it was a stupid, stupid thought born of exasperation and too long standing out in the sun and he should  _not_  have to suffer the consequences of such an idiotic, impulsive thing to-

“Sister!” He musters all the cordiality he can, and smiles.

She’s here, after all - not just a trick of his imagination - and she’s brought her personal raincloud of an elf to hover at her shoulder. And another one, he notices, that he does not recognize. His sister, of course, is the center of the operation, grinning like a lunatic and waving like a child.

She goes up on her tiptoes, and he braces himself for impact just in time - she throws her arms around his neck and practically hangs there, laughing too loudly in his ear. Typical. Public displays of embarrassing familial affection have always been a love of hers. And if he gives for a moment and hugs her tightly for just the shortest, tiniest breath of a second, it is certainly not because he has realized with a pang that he missed her, horribly misguided sense of propriety and all.

She pulls away all smiles, and he straightens his chestpiece (he swears she must have dented it with the force) with all the dignity he can muster. Which, given the amused look the unfamiliar elf has fixed on him, is not an impressive lot. Fenris, to Carver’s chagrin, is wearing something that can almost be called a smile. Odd. Uncomfortable. He should really stop; it’s disconcerting.

Carver nods his greeting to them both nonetheless, and Fenris inclines his head in return, The other elf has not finished gawking yet, apparently, so he resolves to ignore her for as long as possible.

And of course, he learns as he listens to them speak amongst themselves, she is up to something. What a surprise. But… it has been quite a while since he has last seen his sister, and truth be told, he has grown a bit tired of buttering up the duke and his puffed-up associates for the day. Perhaps a little taste of trouble won’t hurt him, even if (and especially because) it does involve her.

Twelve hours later, it is dark and he is sweaty and there are Maker-blasted bugs  _everywhere_ , and Tallis is sitting idly against a tree while the rest of them set up the camp she demanded they make. He isn’t certain why he’s surprised. But there is something in it that tastes of nostalgia, and it beats raiding darkspawn tunnels any day, and he finds he isn’t driven to voice any complaints.

It’s nearly midnight when the man in the orange and green suit barrels screeching from the bushes to their left, a squirrel hopping after him in curious pursuit. Carver’s eyes lock with his sister’s.

Then Marian is openly cackling, one hand braced on his shoulder, nearly doubled over. He cannot help a smile. And if when his sister gathers herself enough to whisper a horrible nickname for the man that only he can hear, Carver cannot help dissolving into laughter with her this time, it is only because the man had been so rude to him this morning and he is glad to watch him squirm.  _She_  is a busybody who sticks her nose absolutely everywhere it does not belong, and he will certainly not miss her when she goes.

(Much.)

\--

“You know, I don’t think we had it that bad. For a while. A short while.”

“I think I blinked and missed it.”

They are silent for a moment. He can feel it as present as ever: the weight of their history hangs in the air around them. Around them, he thinks, and everywhere in this place - but no longer between them.

“I think… I think it’ll be alright, you know? Not real soon, mind you.”

He has not realized until now how long it has been since he last made her smile, but her eyes (they’ve always been a truer blue than his) shine the brighter for it. And perhaps… perhaps he could manage to write her a letter or two while he’s gone, this time.

Odd. The idea of leaving to follow his own path has never hurt before.

But for now they are together, and by some miracle they are not at odds, and he will hang onto his sister’s laughter for as long as he can.

“I suppose it will,” she answers. “ _Not real soon_.”

\--

“Senior Warden.”

The woman sighs heavily before turning. Not a good sign, he supposes. Not that he had expected any differently, but he had allowed himself a bit of hope.

“Hawke,” she answers with a quick nod. “I’ve considered your request for leave over the holiday.”

Carver is silent. It’s still strange when they call him that. He had loved it at first; for once, it was he to stand for his family and receive its honors. But it’s tired by now. It doesn’t fit right on him. If this is how Marian feels all the time, then he at least does not envy her that.

The senior warden purses her lips, and folds her hands in front of her. His heart sinks more than he expects it to.

“Warden-Ensign, the darkspawn are pushing our ranks to the east,” she explains, as though he needs to hear the excuse. “We simply cannot spare-”

“I understand. Thank you, Senior Warden.”

She nods apologetically, and returns to her work.

“Perhaps next year.”

He isn’t upset. He won’t be. He is a warden. He is important, he is his own man, and he is working to keep the people safe. This is what he wanted.

_But_ , a small part of him argues,  _it’s been six years_.

He reaches his tent before he fully realizes he has moved, and slumps down to sit on his pack. Six years since the last First Day he spent with his family. Since Kirkwall and Gamlen’s hovel, since he and Marian laughing together (at their uncle’s expense, of course), and their mother smiling just to see them all together, the vestiges that they were. Eight since Lothering, since Bethany’s smile bringing them together and calming their fire. Eleven since Father.

On a whim, Carver retrieves his rucksack from beside his pillow and rifles through the loose papers until he finds the one he seeks. Smudged from the rain last week, wrinkled from wear, his sister’s handwriting seeming, as always, to do her smiling for her. All about the weather (Kirkwall autumns are too warm for her liking) and the politics (childish names for authority figures all around) and the people (Merrill asks how he fares and sends pressed flowers that were lost in the mailing; Isabela instructs her to ask something she does not deign to pass on, Varric sends his regards; and Fenris, surprisingly, wishes him well).

She is the only family he has left.

He frowns, and stuffs the letter back into his bag. There isn’t any use in dwelling on things like this, and he knows it. He has more important things to focus on.

_Perhaps next year._

\--

The city is on fire.

It’s not so different from the last time he saw Lowtown, when he had run into his sister by chance. She always seems to leave flames in her wake.  He has heard the news already: the rite of annulment has been invoked, and the Champion defends the mages. And of course she does; there are innocent lives at risk, and against those stakes her own life is meaningless.

But - he turns another corner, scans another burning street, moves on again - it is not meaningless to him.

And there, descending the stairs across the market. He’s running already, her name pushing at his tongue-

But there behind her is a furiously familiar sight that stops him where he stands: the elf that would be her shadow, with that ridiculous, showy greatsword at his back. A year of tirades and resentment flood back to Carver then, and something in him ignites at the thought of the side this man his sister called friend has inevitably taken- and if that bastard harms her,  _so help him_ , he will-

At the bottom of the stairs, Marian pauses to breathe, raising almost-shaking hands to her face as though trying to be sure she is truly there, and Fenris takes her hands in his and draws them away and- and he-

Carver blinks, and his fingers go slack where they had clenched around the hilt of his sword. Oh.

The elf pulls away slowly, and he does not let her hands from his until Varric and Isabela appear on the stairway behind them some seconds later. Carver is frozen. The elf, kissing his sister. The elf, kissing his sister with a gentle surety he did not ever think (or need, for that matter) to see in him.

The ground at Marian’s feet bubbles black, and a shapeless mass rises.

Right. World falling apart, here. Shove the kissing away for later.

His hand finds the hilt of his greatsword, his feet remember the ground, and he surges forward.

\--

Varric leads them as far as the docks. Too risky for Marian herself to show herself at their head in the burning streets now, with Orsino and Meredith both a very special sort of dead at her hands. And apparently (because he is Varric, and why wouldn’t he have) the dwarf has planned for just such an occasion. There is a ship waiting in the harbor he has kept his eyes on, with a crew whose silence is easily bought and a deck that will hold them as far as the hills.

The captain (or whoever is in charge, Carver isn’t really certain) stands on the gangplank, herding passengers on board. But as soon as their little band approaches, he steps firmly to the middle, blocking their way.

“‘Old on there, pals,” he says in a low growl,“I won’t have no second class citizens on my ship when there’s legitimate passengers still waiting, you got that?”

He spits, and it lands at Fenris’s feet.

“So shove off and move along, then, knife-ear.”

Fenris stiffens and eyes the man warily, and Marian bristles.

“A month ago, I seem to remember you begging for any passengers you could find,” she barks. “Crisis strikes and beggars suddenly become choosers?”

The man glowers, crossing his arms over his chest to mirror her stubborn stance.

“Now listen ‘ere, you, I will  _not_  have an elf on my ship!”

_Oh, for fuck’s sake_. Marian’s ire, when she is angered past the point of joviality, is truly something to be feared, and in their haste and pushed by urgency she is far over the edge already. The man should really consider himself lucky that before she can say a word, Carver has already stormed up the ramp, fisted one hand in his collar, and hefted him off the ground.

“I am a grey warden,” he shouts over the din around them. Even if the man cannot hear his words, he’s fairly certain the message comes across perfectly well. “I need to get out of this city, _immediately_. So if you have a problem with my companion, you have a problem with me.”

The man makes no answer save to wildly flail his arms in Carver’s general direction. Not that he can be blamed - Carver’s grip hasn’t left him with much in the way of an airway. Satisfied, he lets the man down. His hands immediately fly to his own throat, and he coughs for several seconds before waving them aboard frantically.

“J’s… j’s leave me alone, you ‘ear me?” he splutters as they pass. “I don’t want no trouble with no Wardens.”

Marian checks the man with her shoulder as she walks past nonetheless. Fenris refuses to lift his glare from where it is firmly anchored on the ground before him, but Carver could swear he catches a curt nod of thanks.

\--

The ship rocks gently with the waves.

The horizon still stained red in the distance, and she is silhouetted eerily against it as though she is burning with her pyre of a city.

He feels a sting of pride to see her there with her back held straight. His sister. His sister, the bloody hero.

Beside him, Fenris lets out a long breath.

His sister the hero, and her lover the elf. And he the warden, intruding where he doesn’t belong.

The wind is cold and salty against his face, and from the crow's nest a man shouts something he cannot make out.

“Thank you.”

He looks up with a start to find Fenris watching him carefully, hands folded together between his knees, face measuredly unreadable.

“I never have to be thanked for hassling idiots,” he says with as much of a grin as he can summon. Fenris looks away, and neither man speaks for several moments. The sun falls lower against the waves and bathes them all in reds.

“That… is not what I meant,” is the eventual reply.

Carver waits, but Fenris does not elaborate. Honestly, he thinks with an inward sigh, the people his sister chooses to surround herself with. Brooding and melodramatic to the very end.

“What, then?”

Then the elf looks at him again, and perhaps… perhaps for a moment, he glimpses the man his sister knows. He flashes to a muggy day on Gamlen’s steps, stripping himself of his excess armor while wearing his very worst scowl, and cannot help but smile. _Brave, steadfast, and handsome_. He will grant her that.

“You have never been fond of me.” It is as quiet as Carver has ever heard him. “And yet you allow-”

“My sister doesn’t need anyone’s permission to do anything.” He lets out a breath of laughter. “Least of all, mine.”

As one, they turn to look at her, braced against the railing and stark against the light.

“I am aware,” Fenris agrees, and there is something soft in his voice. “Still. I am grateful you have not objected.”

They watch her a while longer: his sister, their compass, dwarfed against the sea beyond her. And suddenly, it feels very wrong that she is standing alone.

“So.” He breaks the silence when he rises, surprising both of them. He supposes it’s about his turn. “Are you two planning on getting married some day?”

Fenris fixes him with the most comically shocked frown he has ever seen. And he can feel it. He’s got her Maker-damned grin plastered on his stupid face.

“Only I really don’t need an elder brother to show me up at swordsmanship.”

Amazingly,  _miraculously_ , Fenris cracks a smile.


End file.
